


The Shoreline

by MikMason



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Historical, M/M, Navy, Romance, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 00:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikMason/pseuds/MikMason
Summary: Boston America, 1941.Arthur Kirkland is happy. There are a lot of factors, such as his steady job, a beautiful view on a dock- but the most outstanding factor is summed up easily. Alfred F. Jones.The man's enthusiasm is unmatched- he's charming and flattering, loud and obnoxious. He's so patriotic it hurts Arthur's head, but, Arthur had fallen for him.However, once America joined the war due to Pearl Harbor's bombing, Alfred had no hesitations in enlisting. He was positive he'd be able to see Arthur once he came back, but Arthur was going back to London off the news of the Blitz.They’re both sure they'd never see each other again, until an American ship pulls up on the British Shoreline.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Lil smut warning. It's not like hardcore but it's there. Also, bottom England so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )  
> Hey there! I just want to apologize for any misinformation, but I tried my hardest in my research! I might have gotten some geographical things wrong but I tried my hardest. I don't live in England so idk about it but I tried my hardest in America! I set the whole thing in Boston bc that's where I live but I've never seen a little town like this. I based it off Beach City from Steven Universe but rainier and sadder. I don't know but it's cool. We're cool.  
> I've always had a fascination for history, especially the history of my own country. I have such respect and love for America and everyone who serves it. Trust me, if I could, I'd join the army in a heartbeat. Too bad I'm not old enough (curses.)  
> When I found out about Hetalia years ago, I absolutely fell in love. The personalities of each and every character are amazing, and I have to say, I've found respect for countries I'd never thought was very interesting. Again, I've always adored history, which is why I love this weird-ass anime so much.  
> Anyway, I decided to write this because I've always wanted a military story that I could be proud of! If anyone could recall (I doubt it, lol) I wrote a BMC fanfic I while ago about ww3, but it's really bad and rushed and short. I'm so excited to go back in time instead, and I hope this one turns out much better than that last one. (If you want to read it, it's still on my profile, it isn't Hetalia, however :^) )  
> I hope you enjoy this story!

Arthur wanted so desperately to cry. He'd never tell anyone, but the triumphant man standing so confidently in front of him had stolen his heart. Al's wide smile shone like the sun, his tanned skin rebelling against the dreary, overcast sky, his blonde hair refracting colors unseen. His beautiful blue eyes reflecting the ocean he will own.  
Al soon made eye contact with the pale man in the crowd and gently pushes past the women and children wishing him luck. He wraps his arms around Arthur, resting his cheek atop the messy, golden hair. Arthur allows himself to reach up and pat Al’s back, laughing sarcastically.  
“You treat me like I’ll shatter, Alfred dear,” he rolls his eyes, silently wishing for Alfred to never let him go. He’d melt into the younger man if he was allowed. He listens to Al chuckle before letting him go, despite his inner protests.  
“Maybe you will, Art,” Arthur scoffed at the indecent name but decided against correcting him. He’d never truly minded the name- perhaps maybe he did in the beginning. He was one for formalities, but around Alfred, he’s anything but formal. In fact, he felt his heart flutter in his stomach at the usage of the silly moniker. “I don’t want to risk it. You’ve always been my favorite Brit.”  
“Oh, Al, I’m flattered,” And he was. He hoped and prayed that Al wouldn’t notice the growing red on his face, but allowed himself to smile. Sarcastically. He couldn’t let onto the American he was _truly_ flattered- that wouldn’t do. “But I am a man, after all. You should save the charm for a woman.”  
Alfred laughed boldly, dragging the attention to him as always. No man, woman, or child could resist the American’s laugh, even if they tried. It was so charming, always so genuine. The man radiated optimism, it was terribly difficult to try and match his enthusiasm.  
“Man, I just- this is unreal, you know?” Alfred said, looking around, taking it all in. His eyes landed everywhere, the old buildings, the well-cared bushes, even the dented street lamp that needed to be fixed. He looked around with full adoration, smiling wide and nostalgic. “I'll be on the water in just a month, Art.”  
Arthur didn't respond. He just crossed his arms and looked at the dock below his feet. He didn't like thinking of not being around Alfred. The man made his life colorful despite the constant overcast sky.  
“I'm sure gonna miss you,” Alfred said, softer than the Brit had ever heard him. Looking at Alfred's face at that moment, you'd hardly recognize him. In fact, the Brit was almost certain Alfred was quickly replaced by a much sadder man- the optimistic gleam was gone, and his genuine smile was pulled into a sad grimace. “Say, you reckon we'd meet again when I come back?”  
Arthur felt his chest tighten at the hope in the younger man's eyes, “Oh, Al…” He reached over to take the man's upper arm.  
“What is it, Art?” The question was whispered. The crowd from before has dispersed and now everyone had gone on with their lives. There was a boy and his mother still standing, however. His feet dangled over the side of the dock, and he talked animatedly. She laughed and nodded. At yet, Alfred and Arthur kept standing, too close.  
Alfred bravely took the other’s wrist and led him into the small café where they both worked. Alfred's parents had started it two years prior, and it was the most colorful and bright place imaginable. Arthur was a cashier, he had always greeted the patrons with a smile, simply happy to be in such a beautiful environment.  
Now, however, the once bright and happy place was dreary. Arthur despised the thought of working in the little bistro without the beaming American behind him, taking the orders with glee.  
The American led Arthur to his room. Every time Arthur walked into the room he was assaulted with the American dream. It was filled with patriotic posters, Navy propaganda, and red, white, and blue. Even the bed was decorated in the flag. Next to Alfred's bed was a small mattress, meant for the Brit. Arthur hasn't slept on the old, hard mattress once thanks to Alfred's stubbornness in getting Arthur to believe he’s the Hero.  
Alfred sat Arthur on the newly made bed. (Arthur would clean the room every morning after the American would leave- it was the least he could do, he did steal the idiot's bed, after all.) The American fell back on the mattress, bouncing slightly as the springs squeak softly. He leans forward, resting his chin on Arthur's lap. This was a behavior established only a few weeks prior, and Arthur didn't mind at all.  
“Tell me, now that we're in private,” Ah, so Alfred assumed it was a private matter. Arthur juggled this in his head. He would say it was private. He certainly would be embarrassed to tell Alfred out in the open, but he doesn't get these American's. For all he knows, this subject could be very private and terrible in the land of the free.  
“I'm going back to England,” He said, softly. His hands were carding through the younger man's hair, avoiding the absurd cowlick. His heart broke when Alfred's blue eyes met his, his eyebrows upturned. He looked like a kicked puppy- Arthur looked away.  
“Why? That practically guarantees us not seeing each other again!” Alfred places his hands on Arthur's thighs, just in front of his own nose. Arthur places his hands on the side of the other's head.  
“I have to go back for my family. The blitz was right where they were, Alfie,” he explains, shuddering at the thought. His older brother, Alistair, had mailed him asking for his return. His mother was injured, requiring the Seamus and Dylan to stay home, taking care of their mother and Peter. They were much too young to care for the two themselves, they were still only in secondary school. Alistair had gone on leave two years prior and was only informed of his mother's injuries three days before sending Arthur the letter.  
Alfred looks sympathetic, “Oh, Arthur… I'm so sorry,” he hangs his head, embarrassed by his behavior.  
“Don’t be, love. How could you have known?” Arthur’s eyes softened at Alfred's apology and return to petting his blonde hair. Suddenly, Alfred was smiling wide, his eyes filled with stars. He was right close to Arthur. The Brit chuckled nervously. “What?”  
And then Al’s lips were on his. Arthur's shock was quickly overtaken by the American's lips and the hands on his face. Arthur moved his hands under Alfred's jaw, resting his index finger on Alfred's ear lobe and his middle finger behind it. They moved their lips together in earnest, and Alfred slowly began pushing Arthur down into the covers.  
As they pulled apart for breath, Al started at Arthur's cheek, kissing down his neck. He began unbuttoning the Brit's shirt.  
It was a blur, Alfred's soft kisses met every bit of Arthur's skin- his lips, his neck, his stomach, his thighs. It set him on fire, his mouth fell open in silent pleasure and Alfred’s lips were back on his.  
He didn't protest, he didn't want to. He pulled the American closer, opening his mouth. He felt Al's tongue slip between his lips as the other reached down to his trousers. He felt, vaguely, Alfred undoing his buttons before his pants were quickly discarded.  
He wasn't sure what happened, but suddenly Alfred's lips were on his chest, one hand was massaging his waist, and his fingers were slowly stretching him. Arthur moved his hands from the American's shoulders to his head, resting his hands in the blonde hair. He leans down slightly to kiss the top of Al's head.  
Alfred looks up at the kiss, and, his fingers unmoving, strains his neck to kiss the green-eyed Brit.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up next to him was euphoric, and Alfred couldn't help but watch him. He rested his cheek on his fist, smiling serenely as the older man slept. His eyes tread to the other's. The Brit looked so young. 

Al strained his neck to look out the window. It was early, much earlier than he should be up. Looking at the small clock in the corner told him it was around four, and he told himself he should sleep. 

But he couldn't sleep. He was giddy and happy and pumped full of adrenaline. Arthur was everything he imagined and more. The amount of ‘I love you's that left the Brit's mouth was uncountable. Alfred's heart raced, thinking about the possibilities he and Arthur could have.

Of course, it would be hidden. It was unlikely Arthur could even fathom the possibility of being open, but to Alfred that was all he could want. To kiss Arthur, to hug him, to hold his hand. Despite wanting the Brit to stay asleep, Alfred leans over to plant a kiss on his head. Quietly, Arthur stirs. The American feels a pang of guilt, but smiles gleefully when the other gives him a tired grin.

Alfred was sure he couldn’t feel more love for Arthur, but at that moment, with the slanted smile and tired eyes, the American thought he’d burst. The pure adoration he had for Arthur couldn’t possibly be measured, it was more than should be capable for one man.

Arthur reached up to rub at his eyes, turning slowly to the clock.

“Why in God’s name have you woken me up at four in the morning?” He asked, looking very scandalized. The American laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the other man's cheek. “What?”

“I love you,” Al whispered, chuckling when Arthur's face went bright red. He brushed his hand through Arthur's hair, smiling at Arthur's stuttering.

“I…  _ suppose _ the feeling is mutual…” Arthur trailed off, still bright red from the younger man's blunt confession. He looked up at Alfred and smiled. “I love you too, dear.”

The Brit laughed at the toothy grin that spread across Alfred's face. He quickly wrapped his arms around Arthur, engulfing him in his mass. Arthur laughed, moving his hands up to the other's shoulders.

Alfred leaned down to kiss the Brit, quickly moving to kiss his forehead and cheeks multiple times before pulling away. He inhaled harshly, smiling wide. Arthur’s eyes softened at the man's admiration.

“When I get home, Art,” the American started, smiling. “We'll be together. Young and in love.”

Arthur smiled, though Al noticed his eyes looked down sorrowfully, “That sounds beautiful, Alfie.”

“But?” Al asked, worried. He moved his arm up to gently rub under the older man's eye, his fingers curled around Arthur's jaw. 

“You forget I'll be in England, Al,” the Brit said, leaning into Alfred's hand. Alfred's stomach dropped, remembering the conversation. He stuck his lip out, childishly.

“Boo,” he muttered, pouting. The other choked a laugh, lip trembling. Alfred leaned down to kiss him. “But, don’t think that's gonna stop me, Art.”

Arthur looked at him, confused. He leaned into the other man as he pressed another kiss to his lips. The Brit pulled away.

“Whatever do you mean, Alfie?” he asked, allowing Alfred to kiss other places on his face. He kissed Arthur’s cheek, forehead, nose, eyelids. Everywhere. “Alfred,” the Brit demanded, pulling away from the other.

“I’ll look all over the world for you Art,” Al whispered, looking into the other’s eyes whilst grasping the Brit’s jaw. Arthur’s face went red again, but he didn’t get the chance to sputter out a reply. “Whether your here or there, fighting with me or against me, I’m going to love you.”

Arthur looked down, face absolutely red. He felt Alfred’s gaze pound into him with a force he could barely take. He tightened his grip on the younger man’s shoulders. He looked up at Al, looking back at him for a little bit, before leaning up to kiss him. 

“Let's go back to bed,” he whispers, basking in how close he is to Alfred. The American stares at him for a while, thinking, before smiling and nodding. He leans over, grabbing the blanket and throwing it over their bodies.

 

Waking up again was even better. They had sorted out unsaid feelings, assuring each other what they did was real. 

Alfred leaned down to kiss the top of Arthur's head, to which he groaned. He reached up slowly, moving his hands from the American's shoulders, and lightly slapped Alfred’s cheek with his face buried in his pillow.

“Not a morning person, I take it?” The younger asked, chuckling. Arthur's head shot up, looking at the clock in the corner. He rolled his eyes.

“I’m not a six-thirty person,” he groaned, burying his head back into the pillows. He started slapping Al's face softly again. He laughed, gently grabbing the Brit's hand and bringing it down. He pressed another kiss to Arthur's head.

He pushes himself up, laughing when the Brit's head falls softly. Arthur groans loudly, moving so he's taking up the entirety of the queen-sized bed. 

Alfred moves around the room, grabbing clothes. He throws his shirt on as he throws Arthur's pants on him. He rolls over on the mattress, grabbing the fabrics and tiredly putting them on. 

Once they'd finished, Alfred put his arm around Arthur as the Brit rubbed his eyes. Al laughed softly as he shot him a dirty look, his brows furrowed, mouth in a scowl. Alfred loves him.

Chivalrously, the American knelt down on his left leg in front of the other man, his right hand crossed over his chest. He held out his arm, crinkling his nose when the Brit snickered.

“Hey, I’m tryna be a gentleman!” He exclaimed, childishly. Arthur scoffed, though he’s still smiling. He grabbed Al’s arm, his shoulders moving with his chuckles. Even though Alfred was indignant and trying his best and Arthur was being rude and laughing at him, he couldn’t help but think he’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen.

Arthur smiled down at the pouty American, reaching out to grab his arm. Alfred grinned cheerfully, standing up to lead the Brit off his bed. They reach the door, and the younger man quickly pulled it open. He bowed as he showed Arthur out of the small room, the Brit rolled his eyes but laughed either way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda short lol. I wanted to explain the work dynamic before they left lol. Maybe something will actually happen in the next chapter who knows ;^)

They were quiet as they made their way down the stairs. As they approached the bottom, they heard the bustle of the little café’s staff at work. Alfred’s mother was the first to greet them. She was wiping her hands on a soft cloth, marching her way up to the two, smiling. 

“You two never wake up together, what’s the occasion?” She asked, her warm expression drawing the Brit in- Alfred’s smile was genetic, Arthur is sure of it. She tucked the cloth into her apron, beckoning for the two to follow her.

“No occasion, ma,” Mrs. Jones looked up at her son, questioningly. “Just mere coincidence, he was up before I was, of course.”

Arthur nodded, smiling along with whatever it was that spews out of the American’s mouth until he realized what said American had said. Mrs. Jones looked at him, surprised. The Brit was  _ not  _ a morning person and was usually very angry in the morning before his tea. Alfred usually had to go wake him, bracing himself for an attack.

He chuckled nervously, “Yeah, good night’s sleep, I suppose,” he patted the older woman’s arm before making his way behind the counter, earning a stare from Alfred’s younger brother, Matthew, and the frog, Francis.

“Up early, Angleterre?” He asked placing a hand jokingly on the Brit’s hip, causing him to wince away. Francis’ eyes widened, mirroring Arthur’s expression. The smaller man laughed awkwardly, perhaps a bit too loud. His shoulders were tense and his hands were balled so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Good night’s rest! Let’s get to work,” he choked out quickly, turning towards the coffee machine. He nodded at Matthew, who smiled softly back at him. 

 

Alfred was sulking. Arthur couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it had something to do with the Frog trying to touch his hips every chance he got. The Brit would shove his hands away immediately, of course. 

Arthur would see the young man with his chin in his hand, his brows furrowed, and his mouth pulled into a frown whenever he was waiting for a new customer. He snapped out of it when a mother and her two children walked up to the counter. 

He brightened up, smiling wide while jotting down what the boy is saying, sometimes crossing a few things out upon the mother's request. However, he laughs and writes them back down again when the kids protest, making their mother give in.

He sends the order back, barely seeing Arthur’s eyes soften at him. He blushes, turning back to talk to the woman. Arthur tells the order over the line, beginning to prepare her coffee. He scoffs at the smell as he grinds the walnuts.  _ How do these yanks drink this? _

He held his breath as he walked the beverage up to the counter, placing the mug softly on the wooden surface before turning around quickly to grab the rest of the order. He placed each item on a metal tray, carrying it over to the table where the three sat. He placed the coffee in front of the woman, sighing quietly once it was out of his senses. She smiled gratefully, taking a sip. He places the rest of the food down, smiling wide at the children's reactions. 

He smiled as he walked away, making his way back to the kitchen. He waited for another order from Alfred, who was taking the order of a grumpy man. He didn't crack a joke, worrying he'd only upset the other.

The man turned to his wife, who seemed much more energetic. Her jewelry clacked together as she looked around the quaint tearoom. Her long brown hair fell down her light blue dress as she took it in with not  _ quite  _ the same unbridled enthusiasm Alfred held for it. She looked at the menu, quickly deciding and telling the American.

He turned to Arthur, who leaned up as if to hear better. People were lining into the soup house now, causing a ruckus as they decided what to get for breakfast before heading to work or school. Francis and Matthew were turned the other way. The pretty woman and grumpy man talked as they went to sit down. Alfred barely got a word out before Arthur’s lips were on his and his hands were on his cheeks. 

The Brit’s lips were gone as quickly as they came, leaving Alfred unsatisfied. He leaned forward, chasing the shorter’s lips. Arthur merely laughed, grabbing the ticket from Alfred and turning around. He made his way over to the two chefs, who took the paper. 

He went up to the counter and took over the second cash register. Now that they were getting busier they could use the help. Arthur was grateful to get something to work on. He called customers from the long line, and watched as they moved over. 

Taking orders, he smiled genuinely, unlike the usual plastered smile he gives. No one would’ve guess but, underneath the counter, his fingers were interlocked with Alfred’s.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was fun! I really like writing for France, he's such a great character. I'm glad I'm finally getting some movement in. I love writing these guys so much. <3333

And then it came. It looked not unlike Lady Lex, her side was white with a blue anchor painted neatly just beneath the stairs to the wheel. Men lined up, saying goodbye solemnly to fathers, children, and wives. 

To say Arthur was sorrowful was an understatement- he buried his face in Alfred's chest, bawling his eyes out. His stomach convulsed with short, shallow breaths as he held it, trying to suppress them.

The American’s face showed nothing. His arm rested on the small of Arthur’s back, his right hand was carding through the Brit’s hair. He merely leaned down, placing a small and quick kiss on top of the unruly blonde hair. 

Mrs. Jones was wiping her eyes, watching the display. She had hugged her son, telling him how proud she was before Arthur came, stumbling out of the little café. She surely had gotten enough time with her son, eating breakfast with him, going on a stroll around the water. She was happy that Arthur had so much affection for her son, though it broke her heart to see him so torn up about their separation.

The call came, instructing the soldiers to board the ship. Men kissed women, hugged children, spent one last minute with their families. Alfred looked at his mother, smiling wide before looking back to Arthur. The Brit looked up at the ball of enthusiasm, acknowledging that this moment was what Al had strived for. He reached up, planting one last kiss onto Alfred’s cheek.

Then, he let go.

 

Arthur worked himself to the bone, waking every morning before everyone. Even Mrs. Jones was impressed at his vigor, for the first morning when she had entered the small kitchen, Arthur was cleaning through every crevice, anything that was once left neglected he washed thoroughly. 

He’d always a knack for cleaning. He’d help his mother around the house often when he was a child. He knew what tools to use, what cleaner worked best on what, he knew it all. He’d perfected it, and was thoroughly disappointed in himself for not advertising his skill set sooner. 

He’d work best, quickly but cleanly, adding just the right amount of sweetener to the cup of coffee, stirring the tea perfectly down to the second. He’d completely forgotten and disregarded the darkened color under his eyes, sleeping late and waking early. He’d poured himself entirely into his work, despite the protests of that frog.

“Really, Arthur, you  _ must  _ get sleep lest your work suffer!” He’d reasoned, tossing a strand of blonde, shiny hair over his shoulder, dramatically. The Brit merely rolled his eyes and continued to measure the amount of sugar correct.

“ _ Suffer? _ Why, Francis, you make me laugh!” He said, finally, after he’d completed the beverage. He gave a small, sarcastic snicker, turning back to the Frenchman. “I’ve been working the best I ever have, thank you.”

In that moment, Arthur had knocked over the finished cup, dumping it on the apron tied around his waist. White now stained brown, the Brit groaned. He moved slightly, having felt a sharp pain on his calf. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” He asked rhetorically. He stepped away from the shattered mug to inspect his leg. Crimson ran down his skin, the source a shard of porcelain. Francis leaned over to pull the shorter man to the counter. He instructed Matthew to remake the drink as he quickly grabbed the broom from the pantry. He swept the broken mug into the small dustpan. Arthur showed his distress over the mess he’d made. 

“Calm down about the mess, Arthur,” Francis advised, running a rag under warm water. He pressed it gently against the younger’s calf, just next to where the shard impaled him. It wasn’t deep, thank goodness. Slowly, he reached over to grab the shard between his thumb and index finger. He pulled it out with care, brows furrowing at the sharp gasp from Arthur. 

After the piece of porcelain is removed, he pressed the cloth to the wound, apologizing slightly for the pressure. He looked up at the Brit, who was watching the process. His nose was scrunched slightly and he was wiping a tear from his eye. 

Soon, he requested a bandage from Matthew, who was almost finished with another beverage. After completing it, the youngest left hurriedly to the back room. Arthur’s good leg bounced slightly, filling the awkward tension between him and Francis.

“Thank you,” he muttered, looking down. He was embarrassed, after acting so childishly to Francis, the man had helped him without a moment’s hesitation. The Frenchman nodded, standing up to pat Arthur on the shoulder. 

“Aucune inquiétude, mon ami,” he said, despite the Brit’s inability to speak his language. He helped the younger man off the counter, patting his back after his feet reached the ground. “Go get rest, Angleterre.”

Arthur nodded, accepting his fate. He made his way to the stairs, stepping lightly on his cut leg. Passing Mrs. Jones momentarily, he gave an apologetic smile, ready to explain himself. She cut him off before he could speak with her hand on his shoulder. 

“I’ll wake you before dinner,” she smiled before turning back downstairs. He smiled, before making his way up to the room. 

He made sure the door was shut before he limped over to the bed. He fell back onto the blindingly patriotic covers, reminding himself fondly of Alfred. He pulled off his shoes only before clambering under the covers and falling asleep.

 

He opened his eyes slowly as he was shaken awake gently. He turned his head up, squinting as his vision adjusted. He saw Mrs. Jones standing over him, smiling softly down at him. She whispered something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

“Huh?” He choked out, his brows furrowed and eyes nearly closed. She laughed quietly, carding her fingers through Arthur’s blonde hair. 

“I said, ‘dinner’s done,’ Arthur,” She repeated. Arthur nodded, thanking her groggily. He waits until she leaves, pushing the covers off himself carefully when he hears the door shut gently. He unbuttons his work jacket and dress shirt, instead throwing on a long-sleeved collared shirt.

He walks down the stairs, hearing small conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Their not talking about much, and Arthur easily inserts himself into the topic. They talk for a small while before Mr. Jones comments on his hunger. The Brit smiles solemnly, reminded of Alfred through his father. 

The man’s hair was greying, though you’d see bits of the shared golden blonde. Their mannerisms were complete mirrors to each other. The accent they held and the same boisterous laugh. Their love for their country and will to risk their lives for it. It was all the same.

Arthur noted the wheelchair Mr. Jones sat in. It was bland and boring, unlike the man sitting in it. The Brit lightly recalls Mr. Jones telling him how he got in the chair. According to him, he’d been under Major General John J. Piercing, fighting strong in the peak of the battle in France. He was tackled by a group of Heinies who were using a giant knife to hack away at his left leg, but he had pushed them off through the pain. As he was being dragged back to the trench, he’d been attacked by the same group of persistent Germans, which resulted in the loss of poor leftie.

Mrs. Jones later explained, with a solemn tone, that he was subject to a thrown bomb, and was just fortunate enough to have lived. He was sleeping at the time, and his leg was in just the wrong place. Arthur had nodded and hugged the woman. The fact Mr. Jones had lost his legs in a different way that he’d said didn’t deter the respect Arthur held for him. He smiled fondly at the strong man, laughing at his little joke.

“Grace time, baby,” he regaled, causing Mrs. Jones to roll her eyes in mock annoyance. The Brit simply laughed and clapped his hands together, waiting for the older man to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aucune inquiétude- no problem  
> mon ami- my friend  
> Angleterre- England  
> I decided to keep 'Angleterre,' even though it means 'England,' cause I feel like that's just something they'd do. Francis is a Frenchman living in America, working with a Brit. I suppose he'd just call him by his country lol.  
> I used it in the last chapter too, I just didn't make notes for it whoopsies.
> 
> I use the term 'Heinies,' which is a derogatory term referring to Germans. It's a shortened version of the proper name 'Heinrich,' and is used to mean 'moron' or 'idiot,' so I don't suggest using it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol I forgot to mention Patrick in past chapters but he's there!  
> I decided to make Arthur's brothers not hate him because he deserves it he is a good boy ;**

Saying goodbye to the Jones’s was hard. Harder than it should've been. Arthur had told himself he wouldn't cry. But when Mr. Jones rolled out, still in his pajamas, worried he'd missed Arthur, all the Brit could do was cry. 

He cried into Mr. Jones's shoulder, his arms around his neck. Mrs. Jones had come up to rub Arthur's back comfortingly. When he heard her sobbing, he let go of the older man's neck and turned to hug her.

They called for passengers to board the ship. Mrs. Jones kissed Arthur's cheek, letting him go to hug Mr. Jones one last time. He moved to the line of Americans and Englishmen alike. 

He waved them goodbye one last time before the ship departs. He watched Mr. Jones push himself up to the front, still waving vigorously. 

He wiped his eyes and laughed, waving back at him. Soon, Mr. and Mrs. Jones fade away, yet still he stands by the ships side. He stares out to the water, thinking of nothing.

He's bumped, nearly being knocked over by a man backing up. The taller man turned his head, he was smiling. Arthur was ready to give him a what-for, but was stopped by a newspaper hitting the man in his face.

“Carriedo you'd better pray for your life!” A man with dark hair and an unnatural curl yelled, seething in anger. He marched up to ‘Carriedo,’ getting in his face and yelling things Arthur couldn’t understand.

“I apologized, Lovi! Honest mistake,” Carriedo explained, voice airy as he chuckled nervously. “I didn't mean to upset you. Lo juro!”

‘Lovi’ rolled his eyes, “Nice story, idiota,” he looked slightly to Arthur, who was tense and confused. Carriedo was still leaning back on him, and he was too scared to move.

Lovi said something Arthur couldn't understand before Carriedo moved away, “Lo siento, I am Antonio,” he said, reaching out his hand. Arthur nodded and hesitantly took the Spaniard's hand. “This is Lovino.”

Lovino looked at Arthur, nodding his head in acknowledgment before turning back to the taller man and yelling something in, what Arthur presumed to be, Italian.

The Brit backed off, watching in amusement-slash-horror as the two continued to fight. He turned away when Lovino began to hit the taller man with the newspaper. 

He felt a hand on his back turning around quickly and backing up. He apologized as he looked at  a slightly taller man. He had blonde hair, and was smiling softly down at him. 

“My apologies,” He said, Arthur recognizing somewhat of a Finnish accent. The Brit nodded, noticing a tall, menacing man behind him. The Finn must’ve caught his stare, because he turned back to the man behind them. He gave a little giggle. “That’s Berwald, he’s my friend. I’m Tino, by the way.”

Arthur nodded and choked an understanding laugh, “Pleasure to meet you, Tino,” he laughed, brows furrowed nervously. He could still hear that Italian yelling at that Spaniard, whatever their names were. “Excuse me.”

He made his way past Tino and Berwald, walking to the other side of the boat. He sighed when he noticed even more people, bigger and louder. Their conversations melded together, making a cacophony. He rolled his eyes, turning back to see that Berwald character glaring at him as he passed. Arthur smiled uncomfortably, waving awkwardly. He nodded when the taller man reacted in no proper way, merely turning his head and walking faster.

 

The days passed excruciatingly slow. Arthur had run into the loud Italian again, except he wasn’t yelling at that Spaniard. He had his arm around another Italian, though this one was much nicer. He was talking expressively about how annoyed he was about the time it took to get to England. Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes, scoffing at how many times he’d heard Lovino talk angrily about his woes. 

However, the Italian had caught Arthur during his rolling-eyes-scoffing-moment. The blonde seriously believed it was his time to die, as the Italian got in his face, yelling things he couldn’t understand. The other Italian had to pull his brother off the Brit, who sat up apprehensively. 

Lovino was still going, though muffled by Feliciano’s hand. Arthur sat, shaking his head unconsciously, eyes wide. Once Lovino calmed down, his brother let him go. He folded his arms and tapped his foot. He was waiting for an apology, and Arthur would be damned to let this self-entitled twat have the satisfaction.

“Maybe if you didn’t complain  _ all the damn time,  _ I wouldn’t roll my eyes,” Arthur dared, standing up and wiping the dust off his shirt. Lovino’s eyebrows shot up before they furrowed, he stepped closer to the Brit who put his finger up, cutting the Italian off. “We’re all feeling bad, but that doesn’t warrant you being a pretentious  _ son-of-a-bitch. _ ”

He couldn’t hold back his smirk. He was glad he finally got to use the saying Alfred and his father used so often. Upon opening his eyes, he found a very surprised Lovino. He was still in the stance he was in when Arthur began to talk. The blonde was worried he’d struck a nerve for Lovino reached forward, and he was engulfed in what he thought to be a choke-hold.

Instead, he heard the Italian laugh. He was losing it, bending over- which forced Arthur to bend his knees- keeping his hand on the Brit’s back. Arthur chuckled, confused. He pat the brunette’s back awkwardly. Soon- much to his relief- Lovino let go, leaning back up and wiping a tear. 

“That was great, you,” he mused. Arthur looked over to his brother, who was watching happily. Lovino clasped his hands together, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve been a little  _ too  _ bitchy, I agree. I’ll tone it down around you, alright?”

The Brit nodded though he thought it’d be better if Lovino toned down the bitchiness all the time. He shook the Italian’s hand before watching him swagger off to his brother. The whole interaction had him confused. 

 

That didn’t speed the time on the water. By the third day in, Arthur’s body decided it didn’t really like being on the water. He was over the side of the ship for hours at a time for moving even to his bed made him nauseous. 

After he finished getting over the ship hitting a small wave, he sunk to the floor. Lovino had been bringing him food, but he wasn’t able to stomach it. He was surrounded by three plates of mushed up food, and glasses upon glasses of water.

He pressed his cheek into the floor, groaning when they hit another current. He reached up, grabbing the side of the ship. He leaned back over the side, just in case they hit another. Minutes passed like days, hours like weeks. He just wanted to get to England and sleep. 

 

The sickness barely passed by the time he’d finally reached the shore. He practically ran off the boat, nearly tripping over himself. He felt, though dramatic, that he could breathe again.

He heard his name, a small voice calling it excitedly. He turned his head, seeing little Peter running up to him. Peter tackled him- well, his waist- and squeezed him as tight as he could. 

“Peter? Peter  _ get back here! _ ” Heard Dylan yelling after him. The little boy looked up to Arthur, horrified.

“Oh brother, they've been just awful! They've been bossing me around just ‘cause Allie's gone!” He complained, gripping the bottom of his older brother's shirt.

Arthur laughed, petting the poor boy's head. He saw Dylan, Sean, and Patrick force their way through the crowd, looking for their little brother. Their faces lit up as soon as they saw Arthur, racing up to him and hugging him.

Truthfully, Arthur wasn't used to the affections from his brothers. Maybe it had been awful for them, too?

“Oh, won't mother be surprised!” Dylan laughed, clutching his brother's shirt. Sean nodded, and Patrick backed away.

“She wants to see him right away!” He said, beckoning his brothers, ready to walk back to their home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo juro- I swear  
> idiota- idiot  
> Lo siento- I'm sorry
> 
> The reason I made Finland taller than England is all on the fact that Finland is bigger than England, land mass wise. I'm trying to keep this as true to the countries as possible, even if that means chopping off a few inches of the canon. So basically Arthur is a small boy and that s f i n e


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im cryin this one is really short im so sorry
> 
> I had a lot of trouble with this one, idk. I didn't really have motivation for it. I'm too excited for the romance bits of this it's gonna happen it's happenin soon.

Arthur was always a crier. He would break down over the tiniest things. Seeing his mother, sick, laying in bed, wasn't a _tiny thing_.

He bolted to her side, kneeling down to be closer to her. She was asleep, ghostly pale. Dylan and the twins were unusually quiet in her presence. They didn't want to wake her.

Arthur noted the bags under her eyes. She was exhausted though she only slept. He brought his hand up to her face and gently rubbed the pad of his thumb under her left eye. He smiled sorrowfully when she opened her eyes and looked at him. She shot off the pillow, turning to him and smiling.

“Arthur! Oh, darling, you’re back!” She exclaimed, throwing her arms are her son’s neck. He laughs nervously, telling her to be careful. “Oh, you be careful, I’ve been stuck in that bed of mine for much too long! Now make me some tea!”

Arthur laughed softly as he helped her up. Her hair was a mess, she obviously hadn't been up in days. He felt bad for her, the poor woman always hated staying still.

Peter held her hand as they walked, telling her all about school. He was talking on and on about his friends, and casually reached up to grab Arthur’s hand. The older smiled.

“Mina is so funny! She always walks with her legs out like this,” He exclaimed, kicking his legs out haphazardly as he walked. “She’s a real good painter, mum, you should see some of it! She painted me the other day and it was really cool!”

He swung his hands back and forth, smiling. He gasped and let go of both their hands, running to the front door. He pointed at it happily.

“Let’s go to the park! Mum is all better, right?” Arthur shrunk at the hope in his brother’s eyes. He began shaking his head, but was stopped by his mother’s hand on his shoulder.

“That sounds wonderful, Peter, just let us stop for a cuppa, alright?” She propositioned, laughing at the little boy as he jumped around excitedly. He pumped his hands in the air, and waited impatiently as the rest grabbed their coats. He protested when Arthur tried to make him wear his own jacket, but reluctantly spread his arms for the older to put it on him.

“How was America, Artie? I heard they’re all real big people,” he queried, kicking his legs as he walked, like his friend . Arthur laughed, nodding his head.

“Oh, yeah, huge. You’d never imagine how much those Americans eat,” he mused, making his mother and brothers chuckle. Peter asked again if he made any friends. “I have. Lovely people from where I worked, they were a family. I suppose I even liked that French one, too.”

“Tell us about ‘em, then,” Patrick piped in, raising an eyebrow. He tried so genuinely to seem uninterested in what his older brother was talking about. However, it was apparent we wanted to hear more, so Arthur laughed.

“Well, there was an amazing war veteran. Mr. Jones, as he liked to be called. He deserved every ounce of respect we gave him. He fought in the Great War, lost his leg,” he was interrupted by his mother’s gasp. He laughed and continued, bring back the lovely memories from his time with the Jones. “Then, there was the beautiful mother, Ayiana, she was so sweet and ran the restaurant all by herself, and there was their youngest, a quiet boy named Matthew. His presence was calming among his loud, obnoxious brother. Now he, Peter, is the embodiment of America. Big, tough guy who ate his brains out,” His mother and brothers laughed at that, however he kept going. “Alfred F. Jones. He went to fight in the Navy, you know. Everyone was so proud of him, including myself.”

As they continued to walk, they approached the café just by the park. When they entered, Arthur was hit with a wave of solemn nostalgia. The house itself wasn't too special, his brothers thought nothing of it. Good tea, is all.

However, though it had bright and warm colors, Arthur couldn't feel the warmth. The employees didn't talk, merely looking out for customers. They weren't close. The warmth that made the little American snack bar.

He wanted out as soon as possible, so he rushed their orders out of his family and quickly ordered their beverages. He heard Dylan whispering about how his rush must've been due to his working in a café.

He missed the Jones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayiana is the fandom name for Native America. I only just learned about her so I don't know if previous chapters described her right (I don't even know if I described her at all) but I'm obsessed with the idea that America's actual mother is Native America I just think it's so tragic.
> 
> Mina is the nickname for Wilhelmina (Mina) Wylie. She was a really good Australian olympian. I chose her name for Wy, because Wylie... Wy... yknow...


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah a new chapter so early??  
> Yeah i didn't have time to upload that last chapter last week and I felt bad for it being such a long wait and such a crappy little thing so :/  
> anyway idk if you could tell but I hate filler. I just want stuff to happen in my books. So a lot happens. This thing isn’t gonna be like 24 chapters or anything its prolly gonna be over in like 3 or 4 so at least 10???? Another thing you’ll find is that I don’t like long, drawn out stories that are mostly filler. I’m more passionate about when stuff happens so I’d probably be a bad author lol.  
> A! But i do like filler when i can write detail… maybe i should try to write more detail, actually. Like nice language n stuff.   
> Anyway heres the chapter.

Alicia walked with her son, Peter. She was still unwell, but made sure to make plenty of time with her sons. Arthur was out, searching for a job. He refused to work at a café, which she thought was odd. He was never good at cooking, sure. None of them were. However, he could make a lovely cuppa, and could easily be hired with the amount of time he worked with the Jones.

“Oh, Peter dear, let’s sit for a bit,” she led Peter to a small bench on the outskirts of the park. He sat next to her excitedly, knowing well her leg couldn’t take much exertion. He swung his legs, looking out at the shoreline. He noticed a ship. It was big, white and blue. It had a flag on it, a flag he’d never seen. He pointed at the red, white, and blue, striped flag. 

“Mummy, what flag is that?” He asked, keeping his gaze on it. Alicia leaned up from her former position of her neck resting on the back of the bench. She studied it, processing it. Her head was a little foggy from the Blitz, however she knew she knew the name.

“That’s the American flag, kiddo!” A booming voice interrupted the poor mother’s thoughts, and perhaps her heart, too. It was much too loud, much too obnoxious, and much too American. She turned her head swiftly, regretting it immediately at the light-headedness that followed. Peter hopped up on the bench, looking at the much too tall American soldier. “Ol’ red, white, n’ blue. A beauty, ain’t it?”

“Oh! My brother was in America for a bit!” Peter exclaimed, smiling at the soldier. Alicia rubbed the back of her neck, nodding up at the American. “I think he misses it, though. He won’t work at the same kinda place he used too. I think it would make him too sad, and I think he thinks that, too.”

“He definitely misses it. He came back because my sons can't take care of me, Peter here, or themselves. He's a good soul, truely,” Alicia praised, eyes gleamy. This American was giving her a headache. “What branch are you from, Mr. Soldier?”

“The Navy, ma'am. Hope you don’t mind me sitting, I enjoy talking to Brits that'll spare me the time of day,” he chuckled. Peter's eyes widened as he grabbed the soldier's face. “What's up, little buddy?”

“What's your name?” He yelled, spit flying in the American's face. The soldier winced back but laughed. “My brother had a friend that went to the Navy!”

“I’m Alfred, little buddy,” and at that, even Alicia leaned up, facing quickly toward the soldier. “Alfred F. Jones.”

 

Arthur was exhausted. His feet hurt from walking to every business within a three mile radius, and he was ready to just collapse on his couch. Which is what he did. Though, he wasn't expecting to hit someone's lap with his face. 

He pushed himself up, grunting. He thought it’d be someone like his mother, or Patrick. Instead, he was met with Alfred. His shining smile and golden hair, had he gotten tanner? Arthur took a moment to assess Alfred’s training. He’d gotten bigger, that was for sure. He was sipping tea, maybe it had made him feel elegant because he was crossing his legs.

Arthur’s face was blank as he stared on at the American. His hair was shorter, but that stupid cowlick was still there. It almost waved at the Brit, he was sure. They simply sat in silence, Arthur on his hands and knees, Alfred’s legs crossed. The taller had a huge grin on his face, his giant, blue eyes absolutely shined.

“By God, Arthur,” Patrick interrupted, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the growing silence shared between his brother and that American. “Mum invited him because she said you know him. Don’t be awkward, and just talk.”

Arthur looked at his younger brother, face still blank. He looked back at Alfred, who was positively bouncing in excitement. His legs were uncrossed now and he had placed his cuppa on the side table. His shoulders were tense and grabbing at the couch.

“Good morning, Alfred,” Arthur stated simply. He watched the American deflate. He knew Al was expecting some grandeur, overdramatic hug. He expected Arthur to take him into a passionate kiss, pushing him onto the couch and felt him up until the world disappeared. 

“Uh… Hey, Artie!” The soldier exclaimed, taking the initiative and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s thin shoulders. He pressed the Brit against his chest like he used to. Before Arthur could even process what was happening he was spilling over. He sobbed into Alfred’s shirt and felt the American’s hands carding through his hair softly.

 

Walking to the little café with Alfred and his brothers was interesting. The American answered every question and stereotype thrown at him by Arthur’s idiotic brothers. Peter was forgivable since he was only six, however when Sean asked the American if he liked coffee on his burgers Arthur’s went completely red.

“No, but I like coffee  _ with  _ my burgers!” He responded without a second thought. The eldest leaned over to smack Sean on his back. The red-head cringed and rubbed his back. He looked over to Arthur, scandalized.

“How dare you?” He laughed, grimace quickly turning up into a smile. Alfred laughed and said something about how Arthur would do the same thing to him when he was embarrassed. The shorter leaned over and hit him just as hard.

Peter moved from his place beside Patrick, and ran to the side of Arthur, grabbing his hand. Alfred smiled down at the boy, and reached down to grab Arthur’s hand, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alicia is the fandom name for Britannia.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i've lost my motivation.  
> I didn't make an outline which was stupid because I had no clue where this was goin so small end chapter sorry lol  
> this is probably so unsatisfying but I'm finna try even harder I promise!!!! I have over a thousand ideas to get to and this time I'll be more well prepared with an outline kay?? We got this!!!

Being without the American, Arthur found, was fine. Because at the end of the day, he’d end right back up at the Kirkland household, chatting endlessly with his mother and Patrick. They were all surprised to find that Alfred and Patrick got along. They had nothing in common, but they just enjoyed each other’s presence. 

Arthur had walked in on a conversation of theirs, which wasn’t uncommon. He hadn’t heard anything, as they both shut their mouths as soon as he’d entered. 

“Good morning, Alfie,” he said, confused. Alfred’s eyes widened at the nickname, and he hopped up and hugged him from behind. Patrick raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. 

“Mornin’, beautiful,” Alfred whispered, not letting Patrick hear him. Arthur’s face went red immediately. Alfred was so close, he felt his warm breath on his neck. 

He elbowed him in the stomach and got back to what he was doing. He heard Al start to protest, but then looked back at his little brother. Alfred shut up.

“How was ma n’ pa when you left ‘em?” He asked, changing the subject. Arthur saw him squirm a tiny bit. He rolled his eyes. “Distraught, I bet. They loved you, y’know.”

“Oh, and I loved them,” Arthur stated, smiling dreamily. It was the first interracial relationship he’d ever encountered, but they were happy. There was nothing wrong with that, he rationed. He looked over at Alfred, he was so tan. He’d gotten it from his mother, for sure. 

“So, Artie…” Alfred trailed off, bringing the Brit to sit at the table with him. Arthur furrowed his brows in concern, and held the American’s hands. “I’m leavin’ again.”

At the bluntness, Arthur took a moment to process the information. He looked up at Alfred and smiled. He nodded.

“Just…” He started, voice shaking. Alfred leaned up to wipe a tear of his. “Just be sure to get back to  Ayiana and Al senior, alright?” He paused, sniffing. “Come back to me, too. I’d be awfully upset if we couldn’t see eachother again.”

Alfred laughed and nodded. He looked at the calendar sitting just above the large grandfather clock in the living room. A month has already passed since he’d met Arthur, perhaps a bit more.

He kissed Arthur’s forehead. Arthur kissed his cheek.

They both looked out to the shoreline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!  
> that was trash it was only 388 words im sorry.  
> again I'm working on something that'll actually be worth your time.  
> This was a story that I wanted to be big and I guess I just got too excited.   
> I'm sorry ;^)  
> Ps. Check me out on wattpad bc I'm posting my oneshots there. I'll only post the ones I'm super proud of here. It's @transqueenmickey so go follow me please B^)


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